


Chrysalis

by neomeruru



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Disassociation, Dubious Consent, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Nausea, Oral Sex, Painful Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, insinuated Ignis/Any, revoked consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-05 18:11:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16372556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neomeruru/pseuds/neomeruru
Summary: Ignis may be young, but he is in perfect control of his baser urges. He has no desire for messy, complicated, emotional rituals regarding when and with whom to lose his virginity, which is why he approaches it much like he does every unknown: with diligent planning and the assistance of someone he can trust.





	Chrysalis

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, again, to the Ignis Whump Discord, for cheerleading 6k of Ignis/OMC age gap dubcon. You're the real MVPs.
> 
> Spoilery details regarding the CNTW tag are in the end notes.

Seneca Aelius’s body is exactly as Ignis expected.

To some extent, all bodies are the same; Seneca and Ignis particularly so. Seneca is something like what Ignis imagines he will be in thirty years time: a little taller, significantly greyer, with a physique that speaks to a life of both fine food and personal discipline in equal measure. A thatch of wiry grey hair winds up from the neck of his silk robe and down his bare thighs.

Seneca pours wine. Two glasses, a deep red, an indulgence to which Ignis has only recently become accustomed. “Here, son,” he says, beckoning Ignis closer to hand him a glass. “A drink, first, to smooth down the rough edges. There’s no anxieties a drop of wine won’t fix.”

Ignis takes the glass and studies it, like he's been taught. Seneca watches him swirl the wine in the glass, smell it, and take a small sip, all with an indulgent look on his face. He's made the same assumption many adults make: that Ignis's precision and thoughtfulness are signs of an anxious, inexperienced nature.

One of those may be true, but it is not anxiety. Ignis feels completely in control of the situation. The inexperience, on the other hand, is the whole reason why he's here.

He'd chosen Seneca out of small pool of candidates, primarily consisting of palatable Councilmen, his uncle's friends, and Citadel employees, all of high enough social status so as to not raise the question of abuse of power on Ignis's part. All male, according to Ignis's preference; if he is to take a wife later, he already knows he'll have little inclination towards recreational sex with her.

With men… the inclination is much stronger.

Seneca is not precisely a feast for the eyes like a man his own age—one man, in particular—but he is handsome, he is experienced, he is predisposed to men and, most importantly, he has reason to be as mercenary and as discrete as Ignis. A long-time attendee of his uncle's weekly Triple Triad game, there would certainly be rumours of indiscretion if word got out that he was fucking the impressionable young man who'd been serving drinks to the table since he was eleven.

Ignis drinks his wine sedately, eyes on Seneca as he comes to stand in Ignis's personal space. With one hand, Seneca begins plucking the buttons from Ignis's shirt. "Can it possibly be true that an exquisite young man such as yourself has _never_ done this," he muses, as he bares Ignis's undershirt.

"You are the first," Ignis confirms.

Seneca pulls his shirt from his slacks, then slides his hand up Ignis's chest to curl around his neck. He is smiling, and his eyes crinkle deeply in the corners. "What a gift," he says, warmly. "Tell me, have you ever been kissed?"

Ignis swallows. "No," he murmurs. From this distance, he can't help but notice the weathered texture of Seneca's face, the dusting of stubble on his jaw contrasting with the softly sagging fleshiness of his cheeks.

"Oh, well, then please allow me," Seneca says, and steps even closer. His hand comes up to cup Ignis's face, tilting his head and—and then they are kissing. Seneca's lips are warm against his, soft with lip balm whereas Ignis's are embarrassingly chapped. Ignis files that away for his improvement later, what he imagines will be the first of many observations of his personal failings as a sexual partner.

Ignis can feel Seneca’s wine-scented breath on his lips when he pulls back after a few moments. “Gods, son, you’re as stiff as a board,” he teases. “And I don’t mean in the good way.”

“My apologies,” Ignis says. Another for the file. 

Seneca is good-humoured, however. “That’s quite alright. It’s been some time since I’ve had the chance to teach,” he says, smiling still. “I can be more explicit, if you’d like.”

A wave of unwelcome relief washes over Ignis. “Yes, please, if you could.”

Seneca sets his wine glass down on a nearby table and alights his other hand on Ignis’s hip, warm and broad. He leans in to speak directly into Ignis’s ear. “Do you like being told what to do, my boy?”

Ignis’s stomach plummets and tightens, a curious swooping sensation much akin to the first time he’d seen the Glaives practice drills with their shirts off. “I…” he falters, and Seneca’s hand squeezes encouragingly around his hip. If nothing else, he thinks, it will relieve him of not knowing what to do. "Yes," he continues, "I believe I might."

"Wonderful," Seneca says, pulling back to regard Ignis down his aquiline nose. "As it so happens, I am quite comfortable with giving directions." He gestures to Ignis's wineglass, and Ignis puts it to his lips. "Now, drink, and then we will get to the business of relieving you of your virginity, hmm?"

The wine gives him a headrush when he swallows what's left in his glass, so the world is spinning when he instigates the next kiss on his own. This time, he tries to make his lips as pliant as Seneca’s, pursing them rhythmically. Seneca makes a negative noise and pulls back enough to murmur: "...observe."

Ignis devotes his full attention to Seneca when he presses their lips together once more. This time, Seneca's lips are parted, which makes them feel even more soft. Their lips aren't aligned perfectly; Ignis's top lip is between Seneca's, and he can feel the tip of Seneca's tongue flicking lightly against it. It is imperfect, but far better despite this misalignment. Seneca repeats this a few times, coming in at different angles and lip apertures, sometimes with tongue and sometimes without.

The next time Ignis feels Seneca's tongue, he opens his mouth to meet it with his own, and Seneca hums encouragingly. Then it's mostly tongue, as Seneca backs him against the table and nearly pins him to it, bending him back to more thoroughly explore Ignis's mouth. He takes Ignis's hands and presses them to his sides, over the silken robe, then lifts his own to cup Ignis's face.

"Excellent," he says, when they break for air. "You've always been a quick study, haven't you?"

Ignis doubts his skill is _excellent_ after a few minutes of kissing, but it appears to have had the desired effect on Seneca, who's gained some colour in his cheeks. Seneca draws his thumb across Ignis's cheek, pulling it across Ignis's lower lip and down. It feels, a little bit, like Seneca's just bought a chocobo and is checking its beak.

Despite his embarrassing inexperience, Ignis knows at least that he doesn't want to linger here, in playing at love. He closes his lips around Seneca's thumb, letting his tongue brush against its pad. Seneca's gaze darkens as a smile steals across his face, and he leans in to replace thumb with lips again. "Oh, you do have ideas, don't you," he murmurs against Ignis's mouth.

Ignis lifts himself backwards, onto the edge of the table, inviting Seneca into the spread of his legs. Seneca's hands knead his thighs as he locks his ankles behind Seneca's back, pulling him closer, so that he needs to brace with a hand behind him on the table as Seneca takes hungrily from his mouth.

Seneca's robe opens easily, with a single pull at the tie on his waist, baring his pale, hairy chest to where the fabric stubbornly overlaps where it's pressed between them. Seneca, of course, had been dressed for the occasion, whereas Ignis is dressed for a casual, non-incriminating stroll through the residential wing of the Citadel. Seneca undresses Ignis at a fast clip, his movements practiced even as they continue to kiss.

When they break again so Seneca can pull Ignis's undershirt over his head, he pulls away to regard Ignis's bare chest with appreciation. Here, they're quite different; Ignis's torso is hairless, and lean from both rapid growth and daily conditioning. Ignis props himself up on his hands as Seneca's hands roam with proprietary ease over his chest and shoulders, cupping his pecs and thumbing at his nipples. It feels… fine, though it does not spark any sexual interest as Ignis has read that it sometimes does in men.

Seneca's hands continue their journey downwards, skimming over the folded skin of Ignis's stomach. He makes quick work of Ignis's belt, not bothering to pull it from its loops. Ignis wonders, as Seneca flicks the buttons of his fly, if one usually expects to check in with their partner before engaging in genital play for the first time, but it's only an idle thought. Ignis is here, after all, and has made no deception regarding his reasons; Seneca is only doing as he's already been bid. If he hadn't desired this outcome, he could simply leave at any time.

"Oh," Seneca breathes out, delighted, when he cups his hand over Ignis's groin. Ignis has been hard for some time; the responsiveness of his erection to essentially any stimulus is a feature he's cursed regularly since the onset of puberty, though in its proper context he can see its utility. Seneca rubs him briskly, thumb and fingertip squeezing lightly at the head where his emission has left a small dark mark on his briefs.

"Off, then, and let me get a look at you," Seneca says, and Ignis shifts forwards until he slides off the table. He pushes down his slacks, having to lean over inelegantly to remove his socks and shoes. He makes a mental note to review an optimal order of operations—does one remove one's shoes upon entering the chambers of a potential sexual partner, or is that too presumptive?

As he stands, he realizes Seneca's robe has fallen open. It's impossible not to pause at the sight. It's not the first penis he's seen other than his own—thank the Citadel's changeroom for that—but certainly the first _in situ_. It is… as unremarkable as his own: a featureless, fleshy appendage the length of a thumb although significantly fatter, smooth and slightly darker and redder than the rest of him. It hangs limply from a thick bush of wiry grey hair, propped up by an even darker sac. Ignis is hit with a wave of scent: the intimate, musty scent of sweat and hair, and the sharper, more astringent smell of arousal.

Ignis doesn't mean to stare. "Don't mind this, my boy," Seneca says. He grasps himself and tugs lightly. The soft flesh stretches. "It does take a while, the older you get. Nothing to be done about it but give it a little time and attention."

Ignis swallows a breath and stands. "All right. Thank you," he says, and means it. Overcoming erectile dysfunction is something he supposes will provide him with ample time and space to practice his nonexistent skills. He removes his glasses—smudged by Seneca's attentions—and folds them, setting them on the table. The world fades out around him, only Seneca in focus.

Seneca chuckles and turns to put his hand on Ignis's back, guiding him towards the bedchamber. "No need to thank me. If you're willing to indulge an old man with a bit of effort, then the pleasure will be all mine."

Despite his focus, that startles a laugh out of Ignis; wordplay has always been his favorite game. Seneca's brutal tongue has delivered so many scathing compliments around his uncle's card table, it's delightful to find himself its target—like being admitted into a group of peers.

Seneca's bedchamber is outfitted like many of the other residential suites in the Citadel: for exquisite, if temporary, comfort. The servants have already been by, drawing the curtains for the night and turning down the sheets. The fireplace casts a flickering glow over the large canopy bed, the ostentatious wallpaper, the various paintings of long-dead kings and courtiers. Seneca wastes no time in directing him to the sitting area near the fireplace, taking a seat in an armchair and bidding Ignis to stand between his spread legs.

"Let us see," he muses, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Ignis's briefs and tugging until Ignis's erection leaps free like an overeager dog. "Ah, youth," he chuckles, running a finger down its length.

Ignis swallows and watches Seneca gather his emission with his fingertip, pulling it in a glistening string to taste it. He hums, pleased. "Here is what I think we will do, Ignis: observe my mouth on you, then you can use what you've learned to awaken my poor, ancient virility. And then," he gestures to the bed, "we can do as the old Solheimr do, hmm?"

"I…" Ignis starts, surprised to find it's become difficult to speak. "I… yes, that sounds... nice."

Seneca lets out a little huff of laugher, and Ignis scowls internally. _Nice_. He doesn't put much significance on virginity or lack thereof, but he's certain even he should be able to come up with something more evocative than a word one could use to describe a stroll in the gardens. He sets his jaw. This is, after all, the point of seeking out a neutral party with whom to work out all of these embarrassing missteps. When their business is concluded, they needn't ever speak of it again.

Seneca's mouth on him takes him by surprise. He's not precious with his attention; he takes all of the head of Ignis's cock in his mouth straight away, sucking at it and plying the underside with his tongue. It's… pleasant. Good, even. Better than he expected, though functionally similar in feeling to his own warm soapy hand, which is his only point of reference. He despairs observing well enough to replicate it on Seneca; he can barely differentiate his one movement from the next in the onslaught of new information flooding his brain.

He doesn't know what to do with his hands. He doubts Seneca would appreciate a man thirty years his junior putting their hands on his head as if to presume to direct him. Ignis has no desire, either, to posture like the studs in adult movies, arms akimbo like some conquering warlord. He settles for keeping them at his sides.

Seneca's mouth is warm and wet and—Ignis assumes—skilled, though part of that must be the naive earnestness of Ignis's arousal. He's read that this act is among the most exquisite pleasures one can receive, and he wills himself to understand not just why, but _how_. His chin is nearly on his chest, back straight, watching Seneca's mouth begin to bob avidly up and down his length. It's not that it isn't pleasurable; Ignis isn't _dead_ inside, after all, simply absorbed in learning. He can feel that familiar tightness begin to curl low in his belly, just as when he gives himself relief, and he can see how, in the right circumstances, it _could_ be better than one's hand, particularly if one's partner takes the time to become a scholar of their intimate preferences.

Seneca is no such master scholar, certainly not of Ignis, but there is certainly something to be said for general studies. Ignis makes mental notes on his technical proficiency, as if one would to one's tutor—which is, after all, all this is, and Ignis would be remiss to waste the opportunity on selfishly hastening his own orgasm. He tries to breathe evenly as his heart leaps against his ribs, stirred to anxiety by Seneca's ministrations.

Eventually, Seneca draws back and Ignis releases his breath all at once. Seneca smiles and dabs at the corner of his mouth with his fingertips. "You are a model of restraint, aren't you, my boy? Such a polite young man."

"Thank you," Ignis replies, then, almost as an afterthought, he adds: "...sir."

Seneca looks as delighted as if Ignis had handed him a present. "Oh, you are a wicked thing. Am I so transparent?"

Ignis flushes. Having information is not the same as knowing what to do with it.

Seneca strokes down his flanks, soothingly but for the fact they're both naked and thrumming with intent. "Let me, now, give you one piece of advice," he says. "Become comfortable with your more selfish desires. Pursue your own pleasure. I assure you, everyone you meet will be doing the same, whether your paths cross in court or in bed."

Ignis, who has scarce acted on a purely selfish thought since he was six years old, nods. Perhaps, though, in this he acts selfishly: using Seneca solely to acquire knowledge to better himself for someone else. There is a sort of narcissistic pleasure in seeking perfection, and in wanting to be known for it.

Seneca sits back in his chair, drawing his robe aside. His cock juts out between his thighs like a man at the prow of a ship. "The hands-on portion now, if you please," he teases.

Ignis swallows hard and sinks to his knees, letting himself be bracketed by Seneca's legs. The scent he caught before is stronger here, heady and thick like petrichor. He regards his new charge with some trepidation—it's barely risen at all.

Seneca obliges his hesitation by taking himself in hand. "The theory is much the same," he says as he strokes, retracting his foreskin, "I assure you, there's little you can do to a man that he'll find unpleasant, so long as it's done in good faith. Go on, why don't you get acquainted."

Steeling himself to leap into the unknown, Ignis leans forward and touches his tongue to the mushroom-like head of Seneca's cock. It is as unremarkable to the tongue as it it to the eyes: smooth, soft, vaguely salty, musky in that way unique to the intimate parts of one's body. It's displeasing at first, but Ignis soldiers on, laving the head and shaft with his tongue until it tastes only of skin.

"Yes, that's it," Seneca encourages as Ignis takes the rest of his pliable member in his mouth. It's a neat mouthful, though he can feel it plumping on his tongue as he tries to reenact Seneca's motions. There's so little at first that he can press his nose all the way to Seneca's mons and still be able to breathe, but slowly and surely Seneca's cock continues to rouse.

Even mentally prepared, it's still a minor exercise in frustration. Ignis works diligently, though Seneca waxes and wanes seemingly independent of his efforts. The frustration, at least, appears to be only on Ignis's part; Seneca strokes his hair kindly and makes encouraging noises the whole time, occasionally interjecting tips such as _faster, if you would_ and _pay more attention to the underside_.

He labours until his jaw is past the point of cramping and his lower body has gone numb from kneeling, but after some interminable time he's managed to coax Seneca to his full hardness. At least, he believes so; it's not quite the aching turgidity of Ignis's own, but Seneca seems pleased by it. Its growth is remarkable; Ignis has heard that can be the case, but has only ever seen penises in two discrete states: a flaccid and sexless organ, or already prepared off-screen for the act as if it sprung fully-formed from Titan's brow. And never both on the same man, save himself, which is no basis for comparison.

"Well done," Seneca praises, and Ignis sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It's a messier act than he expected, though it's possible that it becomes less so with practice. His lips feel swollen. He is grateful Seneca did not expect him to take the whole member in his throat as is common in videos he's watched, though it would have been good practice. Next time, then, on Seneca or otherwise.

"Shall we proceed to the main event?" Seneca asks, bidding Ignis rise to his feet. His legs feel shaky from disuse.

"Yes, sir," Ignis replies, and Seneca laughs again and pulls him in to kiss him thoroughly. A momentary frisson of panic surges through Ignis at the state of his mouth, but Seneca doesn't appear to mind. He bends Ignis over the hand crooked into the small of his back, their naked bodies pressed together. Ignis startles at the hot, wet length of Seneca against his stomach.

"To the bed, then," Seneca says when they part. He is barely breathing heavily, but Ignis's lungs feel scourged by fire. He gestures expansively to the bed, giving Ignis a slight push ahead of him. "Hands and knees, or on your stomach if you prefer. You may use a pillow."

Ignis feels on display as he walks towards the bed, willing his steps steady and calm. He can practically feel the hot weight of Seneca's eyes on his back, burning into his buttocks. The bed is one of those large, overly tall affairs, draped in a sheer undercanopy with the heavier curtains pulled back.

The kings of old used to execute men on their knees. He thinks of this as pulls the literal and metaphorical veil and puts one knee on the bed, then the other, leading himself to something similarly huge and unknowable until one passes that mortal threshold.

He arranges himself on the bedspread as Seneca lingers outside the curtain, pulling drawers. Eventually he joins Ignis on the bed, groaning as he climbs onto the tall mattress. "Yes, just like that," he mutters distractedly as he unscrews the lid on something that immediately begins to emit a cloying floral scent. "Have you done this part on your own before, son?"

Ignis shifts so he can rub his nose, itching from the smell. He can't be sure whether it is better to lie or tell the truth—and is it an imposition to ask he do it quickly and skillfully, or it it preferable to muddle through on his own and let the consequences thereof be his teacher? Eventually, he settles on the truth: "I've penetrated myself with my fingers, but not to completion."

Seneca chuckles and draws himself close to Ignis's hind. "No? It can feel quite good, if you do it correctly. Allow me."

Ignis lets his head drop and bites back a sigh of relief. "Drop your shoulders down a little as well," Seneca says, and Ignis does, presenting himself to the air. He can hear the _schlick_ of Seneca's fingers in the thick oil, and then Seneca's hands are on him: one hand, dry, on his hip, and the other, oily, stroking the virgin furl of his hole.

"If you feel overwhelmed at any point, simply bear down as if you're relieving yourself," Seneca instructs, pushing in one finger smoothly to the knuckle before Ignis scarce knows to tense up. "It sounds unbearably crude, but it is the natural way to relax your passage."

Ignis means to thank him for his wisdom, but his heart is abruptly in his throat, robbing him of speech. A slightly sick feeling rises in him as Seneca pumps his finger in and out, not _quickly_ per se, but purposefully. He tries to do as Seneca said, and also breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth as he was taught to do when afflicted by motion sickness as a child, and it works enough that the feeling passes.

Seneca's hands are, again, much like his own, but there's something in the angle that feels different, more invasive. Or perhaps it is the body's natural reaction to something happening beyond its control, akin to how it's impossible to tickle oneself.

 _It can feel good_ , Ignis reminds himself as he senses a second fingertip beg access. He has never managed to get to that peak himself, though academically he believes it to be possible. So many texts on the art of love could not be spreading the same piece of misinformation. Perhaps it is him; perhaps he's simply not built for stimulation of this nature. He can feel his gorge rise as two fingers work their way in and out of his passage, stroking down towards the fore of his body.

It feels tight. Not just his orifice around Seneca's fingers, but all through his lower body. He can feel the muscles of his thighs clench in retaliation as he fights to keep the rest of himself loose and pliant. He squeezes his eyes closed and breathes out heavily.

Seneca makes an encouraging noise. "Ah, there, see?" he says, pressing more firmly on the place that sends a thrill of tension shooting through Ignis's body. "It can be possible to reach completion just like this, if one has the inclination."

Ignis doubts this very much, though it's possible that it might wring an orgasm from him unlike any he's had before. The human body is capable of many things.

For all it seems displeasing, Seneca seems to be achieving his goal: after a few minutes, his fingers begin to slide in and out of Ignis with little resistance. He removes his fingers, and a few moments later Ignis can hear the shrill metallic shiver of the lid to the oil again as Seneca applies some to himself.

In this critical moment, though, Seneca hesitates. He wipes his hands on the bedspread and places them both on Ignis's flanks. "Ignis… some men do not find this act pleasurable. I certainly did not, my first time. I assure you, in this and in the rest of your affairs: if you stay the course even when you feel you cannot, you will find you will be able to overcome nearly anything."

It's such an unexpected tenderness that Ignis is still attempting to parse the meaning when he feels the tapered head of Seneca's cock at his hole. He must tense up, because Seneca strokes his skin and shushes him gently as the presence becomes pressure, and then force, until the head overcomes his resistance and pops past that ring of muscle in one briefly agonizing release.

He cannot help it; Ignis yelps, and then groans as fire encircles his hole as quickly as lighting a match. It prickles up his spine, clenching around his organs, such an immediate rejection of the act that Ignis feels weak with it. "No… no, ah, stop..." he moans, rocking forward, but his muscles have closed around the corona of Seneca's cock and hold him fast.

"I know, I know," Seneca soothes, petting down Ignis's sides. "It can be unpleasant at first."

It's not unpleasant. It's impossible, he thinks, as he gasps out his pain in short, shallow gulps. It feels far too large, far too rigid, completely unnatural, and when he can feel Seneca begin to push in more he cries out and presses his face into the pillow, swallowing his pleas to stop.

"Bear down," Seneca reminds him, and Ignis tries; all that happens is that Seneca slides forward a few inches until he meets resistance beyond the depth of his fingers. It burns. He stops there, mercifully, pulling back until he's almost withdrawn completely, then works his way in again to that point. He repeats the motion and Ignis, hyperfocused, can practically feel his body mold to him, rearranging itself, relaxing in increments with each thrust as if by Seneca's will alone.

"There, now, that's not so bad," Seneca says, and Ignis twists to the side enough that Seneca will be able to see him nod into the pillow. He doesn't trust his voice not to betray his shame. Seneca begins to pick up speed, smooth and practiced. A soft squelching sound begins to emanate from their joining, audible over the breath that escapes Ignis in time with Seneca's thrusts.

He is surprised all over again when he feels Seneca's thighs slap against his own, his whole length buried in Ignis as the last of the pain ebbs. _That's it_ , he thinks, naively. If there is some binary point between virginity and the rest of one's life, then this is it without leaving any room for doubt.

He had spent so much time thinking and making preparations of everything up to this part—propositioning Seneca, determining a time they could meet without arousing suspicion, even choosing his clothes and cleaning himself beforehand—that he is irrationally surprised there is still yet more to endure, even though in retrospect it's obvious. Seneca thrusts into him now at a steady clip, working his whole length in and out of Ignis each time as if Ignis's body had always been meant to sheathe it.

He's so relieved that the pain is over that it takes him a while to recognize there are other sensations in this act than pain or pleasure. In fact, as Seneca continues to drive into him, the heavy, clenched feeling in his bowels only intensifies. No amount of bearing down or breathing deeply holds back the tide of nausea that washes over him.

Cold, then hot—his muscles tremble with the immediate need to be doing something, _anything_ else, even as more desperate discomfort surges up into his body from the place they're joined. His jaw clenches hard, hot tears springing unbidden to his eyes and seeping into the pillow. "Stop, something's wrong…" he gasps.

Seneca's hands tighten where they're curled around his hipbones. He slows, slightly, his movements becoming more smooth, but he doesn't completely stop. "It is natural to feel overwhelmed," Seneca grits out, somewhere above and behind Ignis. "Trust in your ability to overcome it."

A sob escapes Ignis as his stomach clenches, transmuting nausea to pain again. Not a stabbing or ripping pain, but a cramping pain that seizes his whole core. Dam broken, he turns his head into the pillow to muffle his cries of agony as Seneca picks up speed. He wants to stop; _Six_ , he wants to stop so completely that it blocks out all other thought. Regret and shame boil in his belly—shame that his body's betrayed its purpose, that he cannot will it to comply. For a few horrible minutes, he's certain he'll pass out, or vomit, or both.

And then, for some reason, it's over. Seneca stops, fully seated in Ignis, and breathes out heavily—he can't feel it, but Ignis can only assume that he's climaxed deep within him, a suspicion confirmed when after a few heartbeats he claps Ignis on the shoulder and says, "Well stayed, my boy."

Ignis releases the pillow—in his thrashing, he'd taken it in his teeth—and only nods. It is over, but he still feels the way he does when finally on dry land after spending the day on the royal yacht: as if the land itself has become as treacherous as the sea while he was looking the other way.

Seneca reaches around him, groping him around his manhood. He clicks his tongue. "You should have used your hand," he chastises, "Most men don't come from receiving alone."

"I'm sorry," Ignis whispers. He doesn't mean to whisper, but that is the voice that remains when everything else has fled.

"No need," Seneca says. Ignis feels a curious slithering sensation as Seneca pulls away, then a trickle of warmth down his thigh. His stomach clenches miserably. Seneca bids him lie down, and arranges himself alongside to lie propped up on his elbow. "It can be difficult to keep track of so many moving parts. You managed it admirably, except for a little bit at the end there."

Ignis goes cold with shame. "I'm sorry," he says again.

Seneca waves him off, dismissive. "Think nothing of it. It is to be expected in the young." He runs his fingertip down Ignis's chest and abdomen. "Though, ah, speaking of youth…"

Ignis follows Seneca's gaze. Against gravity, his own cock is valiantly flying at half-mast. "Oh," he says, dumbly.

"Oh, indeed," Seneca smiles. "Why don't you indulge a tired old man, and take yourself in hand?"

There's nothing in this moment Ignis feels he wants less than to come, but his independently-minded flesh has other opinions. Under Seneca's heavy gaze, he wraps his hand around his erection—flagged during the act, but as easily roused as ever—and tugs it until it returns to its full optimistic attention. 

This, at least, he knows well. He closes his eyes and tries to conjure up a pleasing memory, but the images slide out of his mind like flipping through a filing cabinet. Nothing wants to stick to the sick feeling still lingering in his guts.

“What do you think of when you do this?” Seneca leads him, and Ignis tamps down a grimace at being tethered to this unfortunate plane of reality.

“A little of everything,” he demurs, and speeds his hand. If nothing else, he’ll achieve a purely mechanical release and then be able to go attend to the humiliating ooze of spend between his legs.

Orgasm is slow to come, pulled like a breached child from a place deep inside Ignis that's still curled with malignant tension. He grits his teeth and bears it, feeling little relief as seed coats his hand and stomach. He removes his hand from himself immediately.

"There you are," Seneca says. His voice is warm and indulgent, as if he'd done Ignis the service himself.

It would be rude to get up. It would be rude, and yet Ignis does it anyway, murmuring _thank you, excuse me_ as he swings his legs off the bed, pushes aside the curtain, and pads across the plush carpet to the ensuite bathroom.

He relieves himself, trying not to think of how the water clouds over with particulate of various colours. Eventually the cramping ebbs, leaving his core exhausted. Toilet paper stings against his hot and swollen hole, so he wets a handtowel and presses it to himself instead, bracing one hand on the counter and avoiding looking at himself in the mirror.

 _You will not feel as if you have changed_ , Ignis had read, _because you have not. You'll only have grown in experience, as we do in all things every day._

 _How can an experience not change you,_ he thinks as he carefully wipes his thighs with the towel. A man is only the sum of his experiences. It would be disingenuous to describe himself as not having changed since this morning. The entire point was to be changed.

He scrubs the scent of his own saliva off of his face, and washes his hands diligently. The bathroom lighting makes him look pale and drawn when he catches a glimpse of himself. He wishes he could apparate his clothes to him, but he's not yet been allowed to store personal items in Noct's armiger.

When he re-enters the bedroom, Seneca has dressed again in his silk robe and is standing by the fireplace. He turns and gestures for Ignis to join him, and he does, feeling strange to be naked still while Seneca is partially dressed. Seneca draws him in with one arm around his lower back, gazing down at Ignis fondly. "Congratulations are gauche, but have mine nonetheless," he says.

Ignis looks into the fire. "Thank you," he says, then: "I should return to my room now."

Seneca sighs deeply, though it feels somewhat performative. "Yes, I suppose you should. Come, I'll walk you to the door."

Ignis collects his clothes from both rooms and dresses as perfunctorily as possible without feeling as if he'd arouse suspicion walking through the halls. When he's done, Seneca hands him his glasses, politely rubbed clean of sweat and oil. 

"You are an exemplary young man, Ignis," Seneca says as they walk to the door, his hand between Ignis's shoulderblades. "Should you desire more tutelage—perhaps, to explore your delightful capacity for obedience—you need only ask."

Ignis wants nothing more than to leave and analyze the last hour of his life, but he forces himself to smile. "Thank you, sir. I will keep that in mind."

"Please, Ignis," Seneca smiles as if they are co-conspirators, "When our clothes are on, Seneca will suffice." Then he leans in and lays a chaste kiss on Ignis's cheek.

They bid each other goodnight, without lingering on romance or sentimentality. Seneca asks Ignis to ask his uncle if the next Triple Triad game will be delayed by the vote on refugee resettlement. Ignis promises his uncle will be in touch. Then he is alone.

He pulls out his phone as he walks away. As expected, he's missed multiple largely inconsequential texts and emails even in just the hour he's been out of contact, but he goes to one in particular right away.

_hey, you're not around tonight?_

Ignis smiles and types out a response: _No, my apologies. I was working on a personal project. Did you need something?_

A few minutes later, when Ignis is in the servant's stairwell: _no it's ok just wondered where you were_

 _All is well,_ Ignis types back, _I'll see you tomorrow._

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERY CNTW DEETS: While the intention is that Ignis is legally an adult, it's insinuated that there'd been something hinky going on between him and a much older man that Ignis himself doesn't even recognize as grooming. Ignis's exact age is not mentioned. Also, the sex scene swerves into noncon territory; Ignis asks to stop twice during sex and is ignored by his partner, and considers even asking to stop as a personal failing.
> 
> \--
> 
> I write! I draw! I make julienne fries! Your comments literally sustain me! Join me [on Tumblr](http://chaoslindsay.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/neomeruru) for my fanart and other stuff!
> 
> This fic is remix-friendly: I give blanket permission for non-commercial translations, podfics, remixes, inspired fanfic, and fanart! Just let me know where you put it, so I can make sure others see it too!


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